


Roxy's Guide To Cryptid Hunting(,) And Dating!

by mermeds



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 17:53:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21324244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mermeds/pseuds/mermeds
Summary: 'Hot girls in such places are basically cryptids,' she stage-whispers, which earns her a chuckle from the cashier girl.
Kudos: 1





	Roxy's Guide To Cryptid Hunting(,) And Dating!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

Roxy smiles wide, and laughs, and rides shotgun, propping her feet up on the dashboard and hogging the Aux Cord to blast some funky fucking upbeat tunes at all times. She rolls her eyes at Dirk's antics and tactfully metaphorically closes them, shoving both of you into yet another motel room with just one bed.

'I'm not sharing my bathroom with a boy,' she snickers, and the corner of your lips crawls up into a lopsided smile — the one that Dirk kisses off your face later, when you're in the motel bed, under yet another comforter that smells like some very specific laundry detergent, the one that only cheap roadside motels use. His mouth tastes like toothpaste, and you bite his lips and wrap your arms around his neck. When morning comes, Roxy smiles wide again, and laughs, and yells 'Shotgun!', and never mentions the hickeys littering your skin, too high up on your neck to get covered by the collar of your shirt.

It's not that it's a secret — not with how Dirk sometimes catches you by the wrist, pressing his lips to your knuckles in the most unexpected places possible: on forest trails, by laundromats, in grocery store lines. They're pretty affectionate with one another, too, but literally noone is oblivious enough to ignore the tell-tale adoration with which you undoubtedly stare at Dirk even when he does something absolutely mundane, like dipping his toast into the liquid yolk of his fried egg and yawning above his mug of black coffee in some run-down diner in a town so small it's not even on the map. Sure, Rox also throws her arms around him whenever he stretches, and stains his cheeks with her sticky lipgloss, and she's the one who rides shotgun at all times, but you can't even be jealous when she's just as eager to cuddle up with you in the backseat, and you've head your fair share of scrubbing her lipstick off your own skin. She's a delight to be around, you think, filling in all the empty spaces between you, two poorly socialized idiots, like gold in some weird metaphorical kintsukuroi. She's also broken, of course, but who isn't these days? And she probably has some weird ass metaphor about it all by herself. You bet you could ask Dirk and he'd know the answer, both because he's a know-it-all nerd who would at least make an attempt at guessing, and because they definitely share braincells.

There are about three hundred and eight people in Sodaville, and, if you count your odd group and all the other residents of the only motel in town, the number is climbing up almost all the way up to three-twenty. Almost. The sheets here smell of the same laundry detergent as always, and the sound of the working AC that was probably made a couple years before you were born yourself is barely covered by the sound of running water in the bathroom. You knock on the door.  
'Have fun straightening your gills, bro!' you yell and kind of think you hear laughter in response. Self-satisfied, you step outside.

There are some people outside by the pool despite the fact that the sun is setting and it's gettimg chillier, and you just assume these guys are actually from the North. You're just a simple Southern Belle, though, so you even roll down the sleeves of your plaid shirt and head downstairs to find Roxy.

She's hanging out by the counter in the convenience store on the first floor and definitely flirting with the cashier. The girl's gotten better at it over the course of your trip, stepping up her game from showing off her badass denim jacket with a shitton of cryptidcore patches to both showing off her badass denim jacket and actually asking all these cute girls in these countless Middles-Of-Nowhere for their phone numbers. You'd be lying if you said you weren't really damn proud of her.

'Yo, Rox,' you call. 'Dirk's tryna drown himself in the shower, so, once he's done, we're off to the woods. Ya comin'?'  
She whirls around with a smile, and considers your offer for a moment, which is over as soon as she shoots the cashier girl a wink, while you get an apologetic smile.

'Hot girls in such places are basically cryptids,' she stage-whispers, which earns her a chuckle from the cashier girl, and you nod solemnly.

'Don't forget to take notes, then,' you say, and you're out of the store with a jingle of the bells over the front door.

The board by the pool that proudly calls itself the City Map, even though you wouldn't exactly call this place with a funky name a city at all, notifies you that there's a bar just around the corner — literally, and what's a better condition for heading to the woods at night than being absolutely shitfaced, right? So you pull out your phone and send Dirk a text along the lines of 'meet me @ bar', taking your sweet time to marvel at the glorious image that is your phone wallpaper. It’s a selfie Dirk took with both of you in it, his chin resting on your shoulder, with the Condon city sign as the background. One doesn't need to be a rocket scientist to figure out which one of the letters got vandalised. Roxy's posted that one to her Instagram, tagging it #begaydocrimes, and there was a shitton of comments about the two of you looking cute as fuck. 

Dirk posted it to his account, too — the long awaited face reveal among the numerous blurry pictures of cats — and his post was basically him ranting about how disappointed he is in all of the people who didn't even pay any mind to the carefullt crafted visual joke you both worked so hard on, and if there's something that kind of describes him as a person, it would be this particular Instagram post in this particular situation. The description is pretty vague when you think of it, but it's not like you're his PR manager coming up with a Twitter bio or something, right?

The bar seems kind of crowded, but that's just probably because it's pretty small in the first place. You sit at the counter and order a drink, scrolling through your Twitter feed. The bartender tries to make small talk with you for a bit, but you wave him off, so he leaves you to it, engaging in a conversation about the latest political news with some locals, and you kinda zone out. Your drink's great, the music here is not completely disastrous, and your feed is filled with cat vids, because one of your mutuals went on a retweet spree half an hour ago. This feels nice — definitely better than just kind of rotting alive in your apartment or something.

You snap out of it when a hand touches the back of your head, and you twitch a little, relaxing into the body pressing against your back soon afterwards.

'Hey,' you breathe out with the tiniest of smiles, and Dirk leans in, his breath warm against your earlobe.

'Hey, babe, you come here often?'

You sigh and roll your eyes, but the smile doesn't actually leave your face.


End file.
